


After God and Country

by murg



Category: Original Work
Genre: Alternate History, Antisemitism, Catholic Character, Character Development, Dark Comedy, Eating Disorders, Historical References, I Don't Even Know, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Nazis, Racism, Roman Catholicism, Science Fiction, Slurs, but with a twist!!1!!?!, emphasis on dark, of a bad kind, supersoldiers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-20
Updated: 2014-01-13
Packaged: 2018-01-01 17:32:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 14,104
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1046603
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/murg/pseuds/murg
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>And if she feels guilty when she says it aloud, well, maybe Helmut's endless placations are getting to her, his liberal fantasies. But he's gone now. He's far away and doing a good service and that's all anyone can ask. </i>
  <br/>
</p>
<p>
The year is 1948 and Helmut Sommerfeld is selected for a very special program within his government.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. epitaph i.

**Author's Note:**

> Historical events were altered. If you can deal with the magical gay supersoldier sci-fi shenanigans of this story, the distinctive lack of quotation marks, and the awkward non-chronological presentation, then you can deal with the movement of Regent Horthy's deposition from 1944 to 1948. Most of these changes are a result of the premise that the Third Reich and her allies win WWII. There are more than passing references to the Holocaust, racism, and (of course) Nazism. I wrote maybe 90% of the whole story while having a fever. So no, I really don't have any idea what the hell I was trying to accomplish with this. I'm sorry.  
> I'd be lying if I said this wasn't inspired by Vonnegut's _Mother Night_ and _Harrison Bergeron._ I'd also be committing plagiarism if I did, so there you have it.

An epitaph: Nothing lasts forever. 

 

-

Manfred von Richthofen's lucky he died in 1918, Helmut's father spits. At least he doesn't have to deal with _this._  

The government's in shambles at it is, his father cries. Government's in shambles, no damn food, no damn water, no damn infrastructure. More than half the country's a bombed-out shell. And, on top of all that, _reparations._ Reparations! Rehabilitation and reparations. They don't have any damn time to pay reparations--they're still paying reparations from that _last_ bloody war! Who cares if it's the victor or loser's end, at this point? And there's still Goddamn Stalin eying them from the East; they have no time to care about the West.  

Fucking France, his father groans. 

Helmut says nothing.  

Helmut is nineteen and fresh-faced. His father wants him to join the Sicherheitzdienst, but his mother is hesitant. His country wants him to become an effective breeding machine, but his sister is appalled. Helmut doesn't say what he wants. Helmut never says anything.  

Wiebke tries to parse the issue with him, but Helmut will not speak. Helmut stares out the window and he writes about birds in a journal he keeps on his desk. He once told Wiebke he wanted to be a historian. He once told Wiebke he wanted to run in the Olympics. He once told Wiebke he was going to kill his father, the next time he laid a hand on his sister.  

Helmut didn't speak much, back when he did. Now he never does, though. Helmut is a sad, slow creature. He is one meter eighty-five and angular and Aryan, the blue-eyed pride of a nation, but his attitude is anything but. He creeps around his own house. He haunts the world around him. His eyes are like old, warped glass, his sister once said. They're terrible. Wiebke agrees.  

There's something not right about Helmut. Something fundamentally wrong with him, which is quite a shame. Wiebke adores Helmut; a lot of people do. He's a good boy. No one gives higher praise for Helmut than Thomas König, and even he can't get a word out of Helmut. Helmut goes so far as to _avoid_ Thomas, which Wiebke finds just strange.  

When Helmut's mother gets the letter with the seal, she weeps. Wiebke is in the kitchen with Brigitte when she scurries by, hand held to her mouth and eyes blown wide. Helmut's father, when he comes home, says very little on the matter. He is stoic about the whole affair. Helmut, when he comes home, says nothing.  

It's a great honor, Helmut's sister insists. A great honor, indeed, to be selected for…for such a selective program. That… Well, whatever it is. Do you know what it is, Helmut?  

Helmut says nothing.  

His silence is not stony; it is not accusing; it is not dead. It's simply _there._ And his eyes, his clear eyes, just stare out the window. 

Helmut has made a career of existing. He has been wildly successful up this point. He does not know what this letter has in store for him, but he knows what it means. 

- 

One day, a big black car pulls up and big men dressed in black step out. Helmut leaves with them. No one says a word and neither does he.  

- 

Wherever he is, there are others. No one shares his name with anyone; there's no point. They all see each other once and then they are taken to respective holding areas and they only see each other again at shot time, which is once a week. 

Each week, there are less. 

No one knows what happens to them, the people who disappear. Died, probably. From the shots? Possibly. His first shot left him vomiting into buckets for six hours, the next day. But no. There's something else. There's something they're testing for. Something that makes them eliminate subjects. 

Helmut won't think about it, though. He learns to block out the sides of his vision. He learns how to stop seeing people. He is apt at existing. He is a professional at it. This changes nothing. He feels nothing. 

-

They want me to have a baby, Brigitte says to Wiebke while chopping carrots. 

You're not even a grown woman! How could they expect that?

She shrugs. My father is very insistent. It's for the empire. We need to populate the new countryside. We need Aryan blood.

Wiebke's eyes sweep over her. You're not Aryan.

I know, she says tiredly. But my brother is. And that means, scientifically speaking or something, that I _might_ have Aryan offspring.

I'm not sure if it works that way.

It doesn't matter. I have a time limit. I have until I turn twenty-five to prove my work and perform my civic duty. Then my father kicks me out or…or something. I'm not sure.

Wiebke purses her lips and she thinks of things to say to that, but nothing really suffices. She says nothing.  

-

"You could run away with me," Thomas tells him, fingers smoothing over Helmut's knuckles. His voice is tender, secret, an oaky baritone with a sincere quaver. It is so sincere. 

Thomas has brown hair and brown eyes and crooked ears. He's never worn clothes of any color in his life. His family is Roman Catholic. He dresses like he's going to Sunday Mass everyday, with a white, collared button-down and black slacks. He once told Helmut he had planned on joining the priesthood. 

"We could leave and go far away," Thomas continues. His hands are larger than Helmut's and his skin is not as light. He's plain and ordinary. He's beautiful. 

Helmut's heart wobbles in his breast when he thinks of Thomas. 

Helmut says nothing. 

"Away from--" He waves his other hand, as though that will dispel the horridness that they both can taste in the air. Helmut doesn't know what it _is_ , but _oh,_ it is so terrible. If only it would go away. "Away from everything." 

Thomas is a man of The Lord, though, and Helmut knows that if he could make everything right, he already would have. There is no hope here. No hope for Thomas, with his gorgeously average height and face, no hope for his father's vision of Germany, no hope for Brigitte's escape from impregnation, no hope for Helmut and his wretched mind. No hope for anyone. 

But Thomas's thumb continues to slide against his skin and it is warm and firm and lovely. A barely audible sigh passes from Helmut's lips. He's tired. "St. Sebastian," Thomas whispers. "You remind me of St. Sebastian."

Helmut does not know what that is and so he sighs again.  

-

Helmut is going to serve the Empire, his father screams at his mother. Helmut is going to be in the ranks of great men. Helmut is going to be _history._ You don't understand; you women never understand. Don't make me hit you, you bitch. 

His mother cowers and cries and this is all very visible from the sitting room, with the door ajar. Brigitte hides her face in her brother's shirt. 

Helmut says nothing.  

-

It is dark and quiet and there is no one in his room. His not-home. He misses his sister. He misses Wiebke. He misses Thomas. 

Nothing lasts forever, Helmut whispers, voice hushed and face ashy and eyes distant. Not even God.  

- 

Dr. Kleidermann is a good man. He takes Helmut's blood pressure and pats him on the back and tells him to take a seat. That's a good boy, he never says. Only the other people say that. Dr. Below, for example.  

Helmut never objects. 

They mutter to each other and say strange words that Helmut cannot discern; words too complex and intelligent for his mind to comprehend. Or maybe it is foreign. He isn't sure. He only knows he does not understand and he does not care. 

They measure his height and his weight and flash lights in his eyes and ask him to hold his breath and tug on his biceps and hit his knees. They say this is all very important, very interesting. Helmut finds it all rather dull.  

They test his blood and his saliva and urine and feces and murmur to each other as though this is something unprecedented. Maybe it is. Helmut doesn't know anything about biology. He simply _is_ and accepts it. 

Latin. The words they speak are in Latin. Helmut still does not care, even after the discovery, after one too many "capore sano."

Helmut has been growing thinner and thinner for the past four months. He'd like to say it's out of some protestation, but really he just doesn't care enough to eat. Sometimes, they stuff tubes down his throat. He still doesn't mind. He doesn't mind anything, really. He just exists. 

-

Helmut used to read to her, Brigitte cries to Wiebke. Helmut used to sing softly to her the wretched words of the filthy Jewborn Heinrich Heine, his breath fluttering against the covers of her bed, voice sweet and high and airy. 

He used to push her hair away from her face and take her to the park and _sing_ , oh, Helmut used to sing so often. He'd sing every morning, fingers crawling over piano keys and head resting against the hull. 

It's not fair, Brigitte spits bitterly. Helmut used to affectionately quote von Moltke and debate Nietzsche. He used to get easily flustered at insinuations of forbidden Freudian theory and kiss her on the cheek before work, everyday. 

What happened? she laments. What happened? What did we do wrong? What happened that ruined everything?

Wiebke has no answer. 

You know, Brigitte says, I used to be happy. I used to _feel_ happy, some days. I used to look out my window and feel _lucky._ I used to feel grateful. I used to feel proud.

And now? Wiebke says.

And now, Brigitte says, now I am just scared. 

Fair enough. Fair enough. Wiebke 's eyes trail to Brigitte's flat stomach and she feels sick. Fair enough. 

- 

"I haven't seen you in a while," Thomas says and his voice is gentle and caressing the air. He's gorgeous. 

Helmut curls further in on himself, lying on his bed, staring at the wall dismally. 

His center of gravity shifts. Thomas has seated himself. It adjusts and regulates itself. Everything always does. "Your mother says you're going away."

Helmut says nothing. 

"I'd kiss you, if you'd let me."

Helmut says nothing.

"Do you want me to stop talking?"

He shakes his head, grimacing. 

"Okay, then," Thomas says amicably. "What do you want me to talk about? The weather? No? Polit-- Well, certainly not. Music? You used to like music, Helmut. You used to sing to me."

And Thomas sings. He sounds nothing like Helmut, but he tries and it's amusing. Helmut is a tenor with far-reaching range, eking at alto. Thomas sounds as though he is trying to impersonate a nagging mother. Helmut does not smile, though. Helmut only stares at the wall, shoulders tense and skin bare and lips cold. 

"I'll love you forever," Thomas says. "Past the mountains groaning with age and the sky sagging in defeat. Past the graying of the Earth and the day you'll finally ask me to kiss you."

Helmut says nothing. He takes what Thomas says and he places it deep within himself, in a secret place. He supposes it warms his secretly virtuous insides.  

-

Helmut's secretly virtuous insides are not up to contention. They cannot see them, nor can they understand. They will not see until they understand. Therefore, they will never been seen. Hence, secret. 

Helmut is also a reasonable and logical fellow and knows that there is no way Thomas could ever love him forever. Nothing lasts forever, not even God. This thought keeps him warm in the annoyingly cold inspection rooms of the…where ever he is. 

They tell Helmut he is very lucky. He does not share the sentiment. It is not that he thinks he is _un_ lucky. He simply hasn't given much thought to luck. Things happen. This is his philosophy. 

They tell him he will be so very important. They tell him he is the next Reinhard Heydrich. Helmut refuses to dwell on it. His secretly virtuous insides are not up to contention. They have no right to poke around in there, placing their beloved Heydrich or otherwise within. 

He lives for himself. No one else. He is content with this. They will learn this soon enough or they will fail. Helmut will not be moved. He is no Reinhard Heydrich, no Joseph Goebbels, no Hermann Göring or Rudolf Heß or Heinrich Himmler or Karl Dönitz or Führer Himself. 

He is no one. He is nothing. And he floats. He drifts. He lives. 

A shame, Dr. Waltz says, when prompted on the subject. He's a meatsack, essentially. I don't know if that's good or not. It's certainly not Aryan.

Helmut doesn't care. Helmut lies on his cot and he stares at the lights and he dreams with his eyes open. He dreams of his sister. He dreams of his father. Thomas. Wiebke. God. Germany. The Führer. Catholics. Himself. Nothing.

It's always nothing. 

-

I am a man of constant sorrow, Helmut thinks and his heart cracks a little. My sadness is tight and dry and bundled up within the pit of my stomach. It is like a stone, and brittle. Oh woe is me, a man of constant sorrow. A man who is no more than a wisp of air disturbed by a sigh. 

-

Fucking Poles, Brigitte sneers. Fucking Poles always fucking up everything. Helmut used to chastise her when she said things like this, but he's not here now. 

The Poles are people too, he'd whisper. The Poles are human too. Monkeys, just like the rest of us. 

We're not monkeys, she'd cry. We're not monkeys, certainly not _you_ , Helmut.

His mouth would quirk and he'd say nothing. But his eyes, she remembers his eyes, the way they'd slide to the side, to gaze out the window or down the road or wherever they were when they had these inevitable arguments. 

But still. Fucking Poles. She read the papers; she saw the news. Anarchist nitwits. They're animals. Opa used to be from Danzig. He can vouch for her. Fucking Poles.

And if she feels guilty when she says it aloud, well, maybe Helmut's endless placations are getting to her, his liberal fantasies. But he's gone now. He's far away and doing a good service and that's all anyone can ask.  

-

This place, a boy named Georg whispers to him when the doctors are fixing their needles, is a hellhole. 

Helmut says nothing. 

I hear, he says, that the others? The ones who aren't here anymore? They take them out behind the shed and liquidate them. 

Helmut finds his eyes transfixed by Dr. Kleidermann's gloves. 

They're making Antichrists, Georg sighs. A bunch of nuts trying to play God. 

Helmut doesn't find himself in possession of an opinion. 

The next week, Georg is gone, too. 

-

"Do you want to step out, sometime?"

Helmut shrugs. 

"I was thinking about now," Thomas says, leaning against the doorframe. His face is robust and bemused and lovely. So lovely. Helmut loves his eyes. They are a deep, honest brown. 

Helmut rubs his eyes, checks the clock. It's thirteen. He bites the inside of his cheek. 

"You sleep so much," Thomas laughs. 

Helmut doesn't laugh with him. 

Thomas stops laughing. Helmut loves him for it. Helmut loves him for knowing when to stop. Helmut loves him for the way he puts his calloused hand on his thin shoulder. Helmut loves him for the way he leans in close, serious. "Are you well?" he asks, low and concerned. And oh, how Helmut loves. 

He swallows thickly. 

Thomas's breath on his face. It's damp and warm and _real._ Helmut flinches away.

He's not used to real things. He's not used to confrontation. 

Thomas recoils because Thomas respects him. Helmut loves him for it. "I do love you," he says low but not secretly. His love for Helmut is not something to be hidden or paraded about. It simply is, simply exists between them, warm and solid and real. It damn near brings Helmut to tears if he dwells on it. 

So he doesn't. He turns toward the window. 

"I first saw you," Thomas says, "when you were working old man Effler's field. Do you remember?"

Helmut remembers. 

"And you--you turned to me and, oh, Helmut, the way the sun caught your face, that day. And I thought to myself, 'Why. I've never felt this way about anything before.' And I remember thinking, 'A young, strong man like that wasn't drafted?' Which, now don't get me wrong, wasn't my first thought, but it was there.

"But then you told me that you went to the conservatory on full scholarship and played clarinet in the Saxon band. And I asked you if you'd ever played in a church, which you said yes. And I asked you what kind of church and when you said the Köln cathedral, oh Gosh, I just… I knew you were fantastic, Helmut."

Thomas looks out the window with him. He does not force the silence to be companionable. It happens naturally, whenever he is around. "I knew you were fantastic," he repeats. 

Helmut has nothing to say. 

-

I'm thinking about murdering myself, Helmut silently tells the walls as he lies on his cot and pets his hipbones. An act of political aggression. 

I plan on murdering myself through letting it all go. Letting it all slip away. I'll shed my skin like a snake and emerge like a butterfly escapes the cocoon: forever changed, forever preferred, and forever fragile. 

And in this way, he thinks, through my metamorphosis, I will die. But that is not so sad. Because it will have been beautiful.  

- 

Wiebke can't explain the ideology of the Nazi party even though she has lived in a Nazi world and consumed Nazi media and Nazi food since she was very small. 

But the ideology? It baffles her, if she tries to get a complete grip on it. 

Calling any form of fascism an ideology is giving it too much credit, she remembers Helmut muttering at dinner oh so long ago. 

She thinks he's being very unfair. Everyone loves the Führer, even Helmut, and _He_ comes from Nazism. And she can understand the ideas of Race Theory. She just can't pinpoint a…core ethos. 

Perhaps it is in strength and purity. But that is so vague. And it doesn't explain how Helmut disappeared for some strange reason no one can understand. It doesn't explain how Germany won the war. 

Rehabilitation, everyone cries over. Why pay them? Why are we the reverse France? Why assist our new territories? Is it because we fear Britain? Is it because we want to save face with America? Why?

Hungary in particular has been very unsettled as of late. Wiebke reasons that it must involve Horthy's displacement. It's for the best, though. They can't have other traditionalist values fighting their own ethos, particularly in Austria's case. 

She doesn't understand. She can't. No one can. It's so much bigger than her, so much bigger than anyone.  

-

They force Helmut to run laps in the field outside the establishment for three hours. He begins to wear down after the second, but they chastise him and push him along. They say that these things will be fixed. Practice makes perfect. You will be strong. 

When Helmut finishes, the sun is setting and his clothes are damp and his legs are burning and his eyes are burning and his ribs ache. I am not fit enough for this, he wants to tell them. Don't make me do it again. But he says nothing. 

They take his blood afterwards and he becomes horribly dizzy with the process. He throws up on his own shoes. He is not embarrassed. He has been numb for too long to be embarrassed. He does not like the smell, though. 

That's a good boy, Dr. Below says and pats him on the shoulder blade. That's a good boy. 

Helmut wants to bite his hand like a dog would, but he doesn't. He doesn't care enough to make the effort and some primal, manic part of him believes that the consequence would be more laps. 

They administer his daily shot with dinner and then there is a second needle. Helmut doesn't like it. It's longer. They inject it in his leg, instead of his bicep. He doesn't like that at all. He doesn't know why they do the things they do, but he supposes it doesn't matter. 

Sleep well, Dr. Kleidermann says after handing him a glass of water. We need to preserve you. You need to be healthy. 

I don't want to be preserved, Helmut almost cries. I don't want to be your lab rat or your exalted piece of art to stick in some museum. I want to go home.  

-

Wiebke talks to Thomas, after Helmut leaves. She asks him what he plans to do, where he plans to go. 

"Well," he says. "I figure the seminary. You know, my folks are gone now." She knows. Himmler's men took them. Thomas refuses to say what they did or didn't do. She respects him for this. "I don't have much else here and priests are at least _tolerated_ to a certain degree."

It's a Jew religion, she almost reminds him. But she remembers to keep her mouth shut about those things. Christ is his savior and even if he does believe in the words of Jews, who is to say that is so terrible? Why is everything Jewish equated with evil? Even the Slavs have done some good. 

"But, um," he says, "if Helmut comes back? Could you tell me?"

She promises that she will. If he ever comes back. 

"Good," he says, bobbing his head, blinking. "Good," he says, his throat tight. "Very good. Thank you, Wiebke."

Thomas is a strange boy, she has to think. A very strange, thoughtful boy. She'll miss him just as terribly as she misses Helmut. She hates that people have to leave. She hates that everyone she has ever known has to transform into things that she either doesn't understand or approve of.

But what choice do we have, she thinks glumly. What choice to do we have. 

- 

I'm earning something, Helmut thinks with humor edging on hysteria. That's why this is happening. I'm earning something. My humanity, I figure. Can that be earned? Is that not a right? 

In this day and age, I suppose so. I suppose so. 

- 

Helmut is living in hell. He is not being preserved in a mason jar, no, he's being preserved on IV drips and hours of running under the sun and lying on his back, staring at the ceiling and thinking of nothing at all. 

He thinks about writing home. He knows he can't, but he still considers it. His father must be proud, surely. His mother must be sick to her stomach. Brigitte must be as big as a house by now.

Thomas is probably a Father, by now. 

He has to blink quickly and not consider it anymore. No. He shan't.  

-

Why are people terrible to each other, Wiebke? Brigitte weeps. 

I don't know, she mutters. 

I can't live like this, she wheezes. I can't do this anymore. I can't, Wiebke. I just can't. 

You have to, she insists. 

No, I don't, she replies. She takes a few breaths and regains her composure. No, I don't, she repeats. I really don't. 

Wiebke wants to tell her to not speak like that, but she can't see what that would achieve. 

-

They dress him in a pair of pants and take him to see a man he has never seen before. 

This man says, _This_ is the one?

None of the others passed, Dr. Below says.

Seriously?

Yes. 

Well, then. Not even Immelmann?

No, but we were hopeful. 

It doesn't look like you have much to show for your efforts. 

Give it a little more time. He's not dead, is he? We know what we're doing. 

The man looks at Helmut and he says, You are Sommerfeld, are you not?

Helmut says nothing. 

Yes, Dr. Kleidermann says. 

Can he speak?

We're not sure,  Dr. Waltz says. 

I see. Well, that's just _perfect._ I'm sure the Führer will be _delighted_ to learn that our top guy is dumb. 

On the contrary, Dr. Kleidermann says, he was in a choir for seven years. He played in the Saxon band. 

What does that have to do with anything?

It means, he says very patiently, that our healthy lad can speak. Which, considering his purpose, isn't terribly relevant. It seems that you're very intent on being a pessimist about this whole affair, Generaloberst.  

I certainly don't see him shooting bullets out of his mouth, the man says disapprovingly. Helmut can't tell if he's joking. 

Naturally. Humans can't do that, he says. We're working on something--and it's coming along steadily--but you must be patient. These things take time. 

We don't _have_ time. Have you seen the Soviets, lately?

I've noticed, he says dryly, the state of things in the East. It's impossible not to. You should know I don't approve of the specific conduct. 

Says the scientist to the tactician. 

Forgive me, Generaloberst. Our healthy lad here will end the doubts over there, however. Five months, I promise. 

Three. 

Four. 

No, three. And that's final. I want to see him in three months and I want you to be able to showcase _something_ to me other than a cow-eyed twig of a specimen. 

Dr. Kleidermann ducks his head. Alright. That may be sufficient. 

It will be, the man snaps. You _will_ do it. Or I'll see to it that you won't have to see what the Soviets do in the upcoming year. 

He refers to the doctor with _du_ and something about it shakes Helmut. It jars him semi-awake, back into reality. Dr. Kleidermann is doing his best, he wants to object. He's doing his best doing…whatever it is that he's doing. He's a smart, good man. Don't you _dare_ talk down to him. 

But, of course, Helmut says nothing as Dr. Kleidermann takes him by the elbow, giving him a reassuring squeeze as they're all led out.  

-

"Everything's so temporary," Thomas tells him, picking at the grass. "It's so fragile, this world. I think that makes it beautiful."

Thomas smells like grass and hay and sweat and Herr Fröhlich's pigpen that they passed. Helmut wants to grab his hand and never let go. He wants to cling to it with a sort of desperation reserved for self-preservation. And who's to say it's not?

"But there are also the constant things," Thomas continues. "There are the constant, brilliant things in this world that I like to think will stick around eternally. The sky and the ground under our feet and the love between mothers and children and the benediction of The Lord."

Nothing lasts forever, Helmut wants to say to Thomas. Nothing lasts forever, not even God.  

-

Helmut's started vomiting again. It was after the man. They took him back and Dr. Below and Dr. Kleidermann argued for a long time and some of it was in German, but some of it was in another language and then Dr. Kleidermann came in and he rubbed his face for a long time and sighed and took out the needles. 

Helmut's been vomiting since Tuesday morning. He's had to exchange his bucket for his sink. He's been reduced to spit and acid, at this point. He's stripped himself naked, since he shat through his pants about fourteen hours ago. 

It's Thursday morning! Dr. Kleidermann shouts from outside his room. Look at what you did! You're going to fuck us over, Stefan! God _damn_ it!

Blood spittle crowns the drain, now. Helmut observes this like it is a mild curiosity. That's not very common, he thinks distantly. His arms quake. He's very tired, now that he considers it. Quite tired. 

I have half a mind to _kill_ you, you inbred son of a bitch!

Inbred? Dr. Below fires back. The only one who's inbred here is that Aryan son of a bitch in that cell! Fuck your pseudo-science!

It's not _my_ business! You know what that asshole threatened me with! Not any of you, either. Just me!

I'm not going to watch this country poison its own gene pool with little fuckers like that thing! I'm not going to watch you kill God! _You're making an abomination!_

Everything becomes very still and silent. Helmut raises his head and he looks blearily at the door. He can only see vague shadows through the warped glass. 

What did you put in that shot? Dr. Kleidermann says softly. 

What do you mean?

Damn it, Stefan, don't play stupid!

… He mutters under his breath. 

You _what?_ ** _What?_**

He mutters something else. 

_Christ,_ Stefan! God _damn_ it, Stefan! Dr. Kleidermann wrenches open the door to Helmut's room. His glasses are askew. He's fuming, with a sort of manic look in his eyes. Helmut blinks slowly in reply, inclining his head. 

Come here, Dr. Kleidermann says stiffly. Let's get you cleaned up. 

Helmut doesn't move. 

You'll be fine, Sommerfeld. Just follow me. 

He licks his lips. They taste acrid. 

Damn it, get over here!

Helmut lets go of the sink and collapses in a heap on the floor.  

-

Dr. Below has been replaced, Dr. Kleidermann tells him. 

Communist looking to muddy up the gene pool, Dr. Waltz says from somewhere out of Helmut's view. Didn't you hire him, Klaus?

Dr. Kleidermann shrugs. 

Pseudoscience, Dr. Waltz snorts. Who does he think he is?

Dr. Kleidermann adjusts Helmut's IV, an uncomfortable look on his face. Helmut finds this halfway interesting. He can barely keep his eyes open. He feels as though he is in a great fog. 

What do you want from me? Helmut almost asks. What did Dr. Below put in my shot? Why? Why am I bad for Germany? Why am I _good_ for Germany? What's happening? Why am I here? Where am I going? What is my purpose? Just tell me what you want and I swear, I'll get it for you. Just let me…let me go home. Please.

His throat is like a creaky, rusted door, however, and he can only hiss air out from between his teeth. But he feels something rising. He isn't sure if it's protest or acquiescence but it's important. Dr. Kleidermann lifts his head and stares at him intently. 

Don't speak, he says at last. Don't you ever speak, if you know what's good for you. 

So Helmut says nothing.  

-

Helmut used to sing. He used to make up his own words to Mendelssohn's _Lieder ohne Worte_ and belt them into the sitting room air, regardless of who was listening or not. His sister would complain that he was completely destroying the _point_ of the series by adding words to the songs without words, but he would smile in reply and say that old Felix was dead anyhow, so what did he care?

Of course, Helmut would play Mendelssohn of all people, Brigitte would groan to Wiebke. Of course, he'd be enamored by the Jewish composers. Of course, he'd play degenerate music. 

Helmut enjoys life, Wiebke would say. Helmut does what he likes. I admire that. He doesn't let anyone stop him, least of all a scourge on an otherwise reputable composer's record. Besides, he converted. 

It's in the blood, Brigitte said stiffly. The blood never lies. 

Helmut yelled jovially from the sitting room that Brigitte would believe whatever suited her. 

She rolled her eyes, but she smiled. She smiled. 

She smiled, Wiebke despairs when she thinks back on it. Dear God, there was a time where she _smiled._  

-

"I won't wait for you," Thomas says simply. "To say that I would wait for you is to say that I wouldn't die for you. To say that I wouldn't _live_ for you."

Helmut stares at his packed suitcase and mulls over Thomas's words. Mulls over Thomas's clean white shirt and Thomas's fixed collar and Thomas's square hands resting on his relaxed thighs. 

"No, it's not a horrid question. No question is horrid, Helmut, but it's a naïve one." He moves one hand and Helmut feels it hovering a few centimeters away from his skin. There is a long-suffering hesitation in all of Thomas's overtures of affection. "You never leave me, Helmut," he says softly. "There is nothing to wait for. I hold you in my heart of hearts and there will you always remain, to some degree, at least. 

"It's like Jesus and his flock, Helmut. They may stray, but they return. And just as you will stray and I will stray, we will always return to one another eventually." He's so warm, even when he isn't touching Helmut, even when Helmut can't feel any warmth. His skin is cold and his lips are cold and his eyes are dead and his heart trudges along like a tired, old thing. 

It limps, he thinks dully with hysteria bubbling up under his chest. It limps along and someday it's going to trip and no one's going to be able to catch it--not Brigitte, not Wiebke, not Thomas, not anybody--and it's going to break and then it's going to die. 

"You really are St. Sebastian," Thomas says, but he does not sound happy about it, nor does he sound sad, for that matter. It's said almost wonderingly. 

Helmut still doesn't know who that is. He does not ask. He says nothing.  

-

They're back to giving him shots, the next day. 

He lies back and he thinks of Germany. There are four of them, this time. One of them makes his heart beat hard in his chest, so that his blood thunders and shakes his veins. Dr. Kleidermann apologizes about that--Adrenaline, he claims though he doesn't explain _why_ \--but Helmut doesn't react to it. He just lies back and takes it. 

It's fine, he wants to tell the doctor. Everything ends eventually, you know. This too will pass, despite what Nivelle said. Everything passes. You can try to fight it, but, well then, you end up with meat grinders on your hands, not unlike Nivelle. 

Helmut considers going vegetarian. The lights on the ceiling are very bright. They didn't seem this bright when he first came here. He doesn't much care for the color white. Is white a color? White is so blasé. And temporary. White is very temporary. Nothing that is white ever seems to stay white. Nothing ever seems to remain what it started out as.

Then, he thinks with some humor, am I not human? Am I not German? I started out as those things, did I not? Maybe I'm _becoming_ human and German. Maybe it's something you earn. I believe it. I believe that humanity is earned. I don't think it _should_ be, but I'm not in control of what's deemed human, now am I?

What starts as human becomes inhuman and what starts as inhuman either becomes human or it dies. What starts as German, then, must undoubtedly become Slavic, after some time. Imagine! All the Aryans--everywhere across the blessed Fatherland--becoming Slavs! 

Dr. Kleidermann shoots him a very stern and concerned look. Helmut realizes that he's giggling. He stops. He resumes his vigil of the ceiling. 

Nothing lasts forever, he muses. not even God. Not even Germany.  

-

My God, he's a skeleton, Dr. Geiger exclaims.  

Dr. Kleidermann shifts from foot to foot. Helmut examines the mirror with half-hearted interest. He looks good, he decides after a good four minutes of inspection, bobbing his head approvingly. He looks…fitting. Fitting? Yes. It matches how he feels on the inside. Hence, fitting. 

But strong, Dr. Waltz says. The strongest skeleton you'll ever meet. 

Damn it, we're trying to raise an Aryan here, not a Gaston Leroux-inspired movie monster!

Dr. Kleidermann opens his mouth, closes it, and shrugs. 

That's all you have to say for yourself?

He won't eat, he says. He hasn't accepted solids for _months_ , now. 

Then how is he alive?

IV.

Dr. Geiger looks as though he is going to say something before clasping his hand on his head and shaking it. Perfect, he mutters. Just perfect. No wonder the Generaloberst is tempted to shut down our funding. 

He never said anything about that before, Dr. Waltz cries. 

This, Dr. Geiger says, pointing a stiff finger at Helmut. _This_ is not the next Reinhard Heydrich. _This_ is the next concentration camp attendee. 

You had to go there, didn't you? Dr. Kleidermann mutters. 

Oh, shush. Forget Himmler's idiotic sentiments; I'll forgo political correctness for accuracy. You, he snaps at Helmut whilst licking his lips nervously. What a nervous man this Dr. Geiger is!

Helmut raises his head slightly, eyes drifting over to him. 

If you don't clean up your act, you _will_ be in Dachau. Three months! That's what you have before they toss you in a blender.

Joachim, Dr. Kleidermann says. 

Three months until our funding is cut and we _join_ you, you brat! You're going to ruin us all!

That's not going to happen to us, Dr. Waltz says stiffly. You're overreacting. I'll likely get a demotion to the Rhineland. 

Dr. Geiger grabs his head again in frustration. I can't believe this, he says. I can't believe of all the subjects to get through it, it had to be the one with the incest history, a Goddamn fragile sack of bones, for Chrissakes, we should just toss him out and start over, I--

Joachim, shut up! Dr. Kleidermann barks. 

He stops. 

Helmut freezes, himself. Dr. Kleidermann seems bigger. He's not sure how he feels about that. Nothing, he supposes. He is empty, inside. Brittle and cold and dry. Nothing. 

Sommerfeld, he says quietly. Dangerously. 

Sommerfeld, he repeats with more force. 

Helmut stands up straighter. 

Please escort our friend, Dr. Geiger, outside. 

He nods. He gestures to Dr. Geiger to follow him and then makes his way out of the inspection room and down the hallway. Dr. Geiger treads loudly. He breathes heavily. There's something about him that bothers Helmut. Other than the slanderous comments. Something else. Maybe it's the face grabbing.

Then Dr. Geiger slides his hand against the curve of Helmut's back and then down and he knows. 

So he ignores the ass cup and walks Dr. Geiger to the door. Then, he turns around and he breaks Dr. Geiger's arm. 

-

Helmut doesn't believe in violent intervention, Brigitte says, rolling her eyes. 

Not even in Czechoslovakia? Wiebke asks, baffled. 

"Good for him," Thomas says, flying another page in his book. 

Brigitte rolls her eyes. Oh, 'good for him,' sure, Thomas. They're murderous savages over there! Did you hear about the terrorist attack _last_ week?

"Of course," he says. "But what does killing them solve?"

She gawks at him. What does it _solve?_ The offenders are gone! They don't offend, anymore. 

He looks up at her, unamused. "Lidice didn't raise Heydrich from the grave."

Brigitte says nothing. She leans back in her seat and silently fumes. 

Wiebke doesn't delve into it. 

-

Dr. Waltz is beside himself. Dr. Kleidermann is eerily calm as he cleans up Helmut's bloodied face. 

Your nose will be fine, he says. It'll be tender for a while, though. Don't sleep on your face. 

Oh, he'll be fine, alright! Dr. Waltz says, pausing in his frantic pacing. But what about us? He nearly tore Geiger's arm out of its socket! We're lucky he's too afraid to file a report. 

_He's_ lucky he still has an arm, Dr. Kleidermann retorts, and isn't under arrest for damage of government property. 

He insulted my physicality because he was sexually interested, Helmut wants to say, thoroughly amused. Is he like that will all boys or just skinny blond ones? A regular Röhm, I see. What a doll. What a Mensch. 

You need to eat, Dr. Kleidermann says. In all seriousness, Sommerfeld. You must eat. You truly are a living corpse. It's not good for the propaganda. 

Dr. Waltz snorts. Oh, yes. They want a big, strong Aryan man. Nothing less will do. 

You don't understand, Helmut want to say. He wanted to get at my secretly virtuous insides. They're secret for a reason, you know. Their virtuousness. It's hidden. There's not up to contention. You can't see them. No one can.  

-

The next Reinhard Heydrich, they mutter. Did you see the test results? Did you see how fast he cracked that code?

I thought we were going for something different, Dr. Waltz groans. 

We were, Dr. Kleidermann says. But this is also good. Either way, they'll have their Overman. What does it matter if it's by force or cunning?

Helmut is also their healthy lad, now, strong and fit now and well-fed, and he benches 130 kg effortlessly. 

Strong is also good, though, Dr. Kleidermann amends. Strong is great.  

-

Helmut eats. He hates it and he tries not to throw up, but he has horrible days and decent days and he cries often. Dr. Waltz, who gives him his meals, respectfully turns his head away and pretends not to notice. 

My virtuous insides, he wants to weep. You don't understand--they'll have no more room. I can't do it. I just can't. Please, make it stop. 

If my virtuous insides have no room, how can you expect Reinhard Heydrich to occupy me as well? 

-

We unveil him to you now, Dr. Kleidermann says. 

Helmut finds himself nervous and with cold feet at the dinner. There are important men here. There is the great Chef himself, and Propaganda Minister, and Reichsmarschall, and so many great men. So many great and awe-inspiring and terrible men. 

But Dr. Kleidermann is nudging him, so he stands up. He pulls back his shoulders, like they told him to. He lifts his chin. He doesn't feel impressive, but they  told him to at least act the part. 

I am the new Reinhard Heydrich, he almost declares. Behold. Stand in awe before your Blond Beast. 

Their eyes are upon him and he feels sick, nauseous, but he cannot vomit on the shoes of Heinrich Himmler, nor can he wipe his mouth with the napkin of Joseph Goebbels. Dr. Kleidermann's hand is steadying against his back. Helmut stands tall. 

They stare at him and he has nothing inside, no room for _anything_ anymore, and in this he finds space. He finds elbowroom, finally. He feels like a slowly deflating balloon, relief blossoming in his chest. He feels loose and fine. He feels strong and sure. 

And who are these people? These men? Surely not Overmen, surely not soldiers fighting on the front. No. They are Nazis. They are cannon fodder. They are politicians who called for him and his complete breakdown. No, they are not Overmen for it cannot be. _Helmut_ is the Overman. He knows this, now. He knows what the billboards in town were advertising, now. 

I have a manifesto for you, he almost shouts: Nothing lasts forever, not even God. Not even Germany. Not even your Führer.

- 

"Not going to talk?" Thomas says.  

Helmut says nothing.  

"That's alright," Thomas says lightly. "Nothing you can say or not say will stop me from loving you." 

Helmut says nothing. His insides twist and squirm. He loves Thomas. Oh, how he _adores_ Thomas. Likewise, he wants to whisper. Likewise, he wants to scream.  

But no. Helmut says nothing.  

- 

Oh my God! Brigitte's mother screams from the sitting room.  

What, what? she says, running into the room.  

Her mother stares at her with wide eyes. _It's Helmut!_ she cries. 

_What?_

Sh, listen! And she turns up the radio.  

And then Brigitte hears it.  

She hears Helmut. 

- 

Wiebke is in Frau Schieffer's shop when she hears it. When the world stops around her and everything shrinks to a single pinpoint of sound. 

Helmut's voice. 

- 

Thomas König doesn't hear it. He's studying in a seminary near Bonn.  

-

 

 

 

 

 


	2. epitaph ii.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Helmut projects too much personal woe into his propaganda and loses sight of his own plot. Don't we all, though?

An epitaph: I wanted this. 

 

- 

Helmut Sommerfeld steals the Reichstag's hearts rather effortlessly, if it's anything to go by. Look at me, he had (reportedly) said with a tight smile. Look at me, Doc. The new Reinhard Heydrich.  

Dr. Kleidermann has little to say on the matter. He will not accept questions. His official statement reads that it was in no way intended to be a coup d'état.  

Helmut Sommerfeld--or the new Reinhard Heydrich--is brilliant. His diction, they say, is a thing of magic. The way words flow so effortlessly off of his tongue, it's as though he is a snake charmer with people not as his audience, but as his props.  

That's all people are, he had (reportedly) said with a strained jaw. No one's human, you see. Humanity is a thing. It's a thing that's _earned_ , my Germans. It's not a right. It's a _privilege_ , in this day and age. To be _German_ is a privilege. It is a step up, if you will! Why be a prop when you can be human; why be human when you can be German? 

I am your anti-communist, he had (reportedly) continued. I am your Overman. The Führer may rule you, but no one rules me. That is the purpose of the Overman, after all. I will eliminate Stalin because that is what the Christian God put me on this Earth to accomplish. Bolshevism is but an irritating gnat buzzing by my ear. People, I mean it when I say this: Do not be afraid. The coming of our salvation is at hand. National Socialists, rejoice, for I am your Nordic comrade. I am your Aryan golem. I am your new Reinhard Heydrich.  

There's something so lovely about Helmut Sommerfeld's voice, his dulcet tones and conversational cadence. Magic, some say. Tampered with, some whisper darkly.  

- 

This isn't what we were trying to achieve, Dr. Waltz murmurs to Dr. Kleidermann. We wanted a strongman, instead we got a second Hitler.  

A better Hitler, Dr. Kleidermann corrects him.  

How so? 

Aryan. And handsomer.  

Dr. Waltz rolls his eyes. He appears to have taken some of the stupid things we told him a little too much to heart, he says.  

We were mandated to say those things; it's not our fault.  

But all the same.  

All the same. 

Dr. Waltz hesitates. Do you think, he says, that the shots did that? That the training made him…well, made him into _that?_  

No, Dr. Kleidermann says. Or, well, I suppose it _could_ have. But no. Norepinephrine injections don't turn you into an orator. No, our little nightingale was supposed to be a lion, you're right. I don't know what happened.  

Did we do _anything_ right?

Well, he did twist the barrel off of that SS soldier's gun.  

Mm.  

No development of telekinesis, as far as I can tell. … _Yet._  

Dr. Waltz glances at his watch. Well, he says stiffly. I suppose our usefulness is almost over.  

Not if I have any say in it. _Someone_ has to be his handler.  

Well, count me out, because I don't want anything to do with it.  

Dr. Kleidermann looks at him sharply. Why? 

I. Well. Look, Klaus, he's a. …He's just not _natural._   

 _That was the whole point!_ he roars. 

Dr. Waltz cringes away. Yes. Well. I just don't feel clean about the whole matter. I'd appreciate if you only consulted me on emergencies.  

Fine. Alright, fine.  

And still, Helmut's voice is on the radio, light, airy, and lovely. It truly is. Dr. Kleidermann turns it off, scowling.  

- 

I'm scared, Brigitte says in the dark.  

We all are, Wiebke says. 

I know, but I'm especially scared. I'm scared for my family, I'm scared for myself. 

We all are, Wiebke says.  

I just feel like it matters more, for me.  

It feels that way for everybody everywhere, Wiebke says and turns her eyes to the faint light outside the window. This isn't a book and we're not protagonists, Brigitte. We're nothing special and neither are our troubles.  

Nothing is special, she thinks darkly. Not a single damn thing. No one or nothing. Everything is grey and white, like the movies. Everything is just foggy water, as though we are fish in a bog. And none of it matters. There is no consequence. There is no meaning. There is nothing. Everything is temporary, even if it lasts a lifetime.  

- 

Hello, Dr. Kleidermann says, eyeing the man on his doorstep. Who are you? 

"Thomas König," the very unremarkable man says.  

I see.  

"I'm a friend of Helmut's." 

Ah. 

"Do you know if he's well?" 

Well, right now he's working on a joint project with Ribbentrop.  

"…I see." 

They're discussing the Soviet problem. It's very concerning. 

"Do you know when he'll be back?" 

To Berlin? 

"Yes." 

Sometime this week, I figure. It's hard to tell. He's in high demand.  

"I don't doubt it." 

Why would you want to know? 

"Because I'm his friend. I'd like to see him. Tell him Thomas König called, won't you? I'll be around town. If he wants to meet, here's my room number." 

I'll be sure to do that. Thank you.  

The man pauses, fiddling with his hat. "I just. I, well. It's a rather stupid question, but why Helmut?" 

Why Helmut? I'm not following, I'm afraid.  

"Why…him? You know, why did you select him for this program?" 

Select? 

"Yes," he says, raising his chin. "Why did _Helmut_ get a letter in the mail when there are many other perfectly suitable young men across Germany? Why did you decide to take him?" 

Oh, no, Dr. Kleidermann says, confused. This is a volunteer only experiment. To force people into it would be very unethical. And take far too long. We'd have to amass every Aryan male age fifteen to twenty-five in the country. There's no way.  

The man doesn't say anything. 

I mean, Dr. Kleidermann continues fumblingly, we _did_ post billboards around towns, especially the destitute rural sort. Those people _always_ come clamoring to tests. We pay well. Sommerfeld's family got a decent stipend for the trouble.  

His jaw clenches and unclenches several times. "I see," he says slowly, blinking. "I see." 

Yes. Is that all?

"I suppose so. Good day, sir." 

Yes. Good day. 

Dr. Kleidermann closes the door and examines the slip of paper in his hands. His address, nothing more. König has precise handwriting. He and Helmut will need to exchange some words, when he returns.  

- 

This, he says when Helmut comes through the door bright-eyed and tall, is a problem.  

Helmut grunts.  

Are you familiar with a Thomas König? 

Helmut freezes. He says nothing.  

It's all the indication Dr. Kleidermann needs. Helmut, he says very patiently and calmly and soothingly, we can't have you dragging excessive dirt into this. 

Helmut says nothing.  

This is his address. Go see him. Tell him not to bother you again.  

He takes the slip of paper with trembling fingers and smoothes his thumbs over the creases over and over again. He licks his lips and blinks rapidly.  

Can you do that? he presses.  

Helmut nods.  

- 

I'm angry, Wiebke says. I'm angry all the damn time. I feel trapped in my own skin. 

Why? Brigitte asks absently, eyes trailing over the pages of the book in her lap.

I don't know, she bites out. I don't. Know. I just feel like there's no _point_ in anything anymore, like there never was. I feel like the world is diseased and only I can see it and I can't do anything about it. I feel helpless and powerless and pathetic. 

That's not good.  

Could you _listen?_   

Brigitte grunts.  

Wiebke clenches her jaw, breathes out her nose, stares out the window with frustrated eyes, and tries to let it go. 

- 

Thomas is _lovely._ He's everything Helmut has ever wanted in a human. Thomas _is_ human, after all. He earned it when he was born. Thomas isn't perfection; he's better. He's so lovely.  

Helmut finds his mouth dry and his throat tight.  

Thomas's brown eyes look at him warmly and kindly and acceptingly and he is so lovely. "Hi," he says.  

Helmut swallows.  

"It's been a while," he continues.  

Are you a priest? he wants to demand. Did you do that? Did you fall into the Jude religion? Did you leave me?  

But no, Helmut says nothing.  

Thomas takes a few steps forward. Helmut stands his ground, heart palpitating. "They say," he says with a tinge of humor, "that you're immune to bullets." 

Helmut shrugs. He rolls his eyes. Damn propaganda machine. He is his _own_ propaganda machine. He doesn't need Goebbels screwing everything over for him with childish, sarcastic claims that sheep take into serious consideration.  

"Not so?" he says, grinning. "Gosh, what sort of Aryan are you, Helmut?" 

Helmut smiles back shyly in response.  

"How are you?" Thomas says, serious.  

He shrugs.  

"I don't like that, Helmut. I don't like anything less than 'fantastic.' Are you well?" 

Helmut doesn't know what to say to that. He isn't sure how to respond. Is he? Artificially, yes. Naturally? Who knows, anymore? He hasn't given it much thought. He hasn't allowed himself to.  

He clears his throat and Thomas waits for him to say something, but he can't get the words out. "You know," Thomas says at last, "I've thought about you." 

Helmut waits with baited breath.  

Thomas lets out a light chuckle, eyes wandering over the crown-molding. "I. I never asked for this life, Helmut. I never asked for The Lord to walk in as He did and I didn't ask for you to, either. But both have fulfilled me in ways I cannot begin to explain. 

"My parents--I'm not sure if you know--were taken away around six months ago, by the Gestapo. And I thought," he says, lips twitching, "I thought they were going to take me too. But they didn't." He shrugs. "They didn't." 

Helmut doesn't know what to say to that.  

He looks Helmut in the eye. "I'm in the seminary now." 

His heart plummets to his knees.  

"I just. Helmut, I'm so sorry. I wish I could have it both ways. There's nothing _wrong_ with what we have; it's _beautiful_ and just as sacred as the way I feel about The Lord. But… But, Helmut, The Lord has saved me again. He has issued His calling." 

Helmut wants to snarl that there is no God, that his God is _dead_ and pathetic and a false idol. He wants to stomp around the room, wants to tear the sheets off the mattress near the window and throw them onto the streets below. But Thomas has never lied and Thomas did say he would not wait for him. Helmut's anger turns into a low simmer, at the thought. He feels dull and tired in response.  

Who can stay angry at Thomas, chosen by The Lord? With his brown eyes and his lovely facial asymmetry? Helmut feels a crushing guilt.  

"I love you," Thomas says.  

Helmut says nothing.  

Thomas nods, clenching his jaw. "It was good to see you, Helmut. I really missed you. I understand that you, ah. You voluntarily chose to undergo your…process." 

He can't lie to Thomas. So he doesn't say anything.  

I wanted this, he thinks. I wanted this and I wanted you, too. I wanted to prevent any other good boys from being picked off the damn streets to be beacons of propaganda for the machine. I wanted…something, sometime ago. It's all muddled in me, now. I'm serving a purpose now, just as you are and Brigitte surely is and Wiebke hopefully is. I just wish I could have had you. I wish I could have had my cake and eaten it, too. I wish this didn't have to be a dueling match between God and me.  

"That's okay," Thomas says, running a hand through his hair. "That's alright. I forgive you. I love you." 

Helmut says nothing.  

Thomas does not tighten, this time. His eyes soften. He is loose and open and Helmut knows that he would fit between Thomas's arms if only his feet would move. He knows Thomas's arms would wrap around him and encase him and his hands would rub his spine. He knows Thomas's voice would be against his jaw and Thomas's hair at his nose. He knows he would be accepted. He knows he could convince Thomas, in that instance.  

But he does not move and Thomas does not drop the unspoken invitation. He smiles a sad, warm smile. "Nothing you can say or not say will stop me from loving you." 

Whatever is left of Helmut's virtuous insides contracts painfully and he is left closed, empty, and bereft.  

- 

Why remember, he spits. Why remember a damn thing ever. 

- 

The Soviets are arming the border along the Caucus, Dr. Kleidermann groans.  

Well, Dr. Waltz says, raising his eyebrows in amusement. There you have it. You're alive to see what the Soviets will do. Congratulations.  

Dr. Kleidermann says nothing.  

- 

You have to do something, they scream at Helmut. You're an Overman! You are the greatest bastion against Bolshevism!  

Helmut gives a tight smile and (reportedly) says that he will see to it.  

The _Overman_ will see to it. This soothes them.  

Communism is the enemy of National Socialism. It is the enemy of common human decency. Well, Helmut reasons, humanity is earned and decency is sought. So what does that mean? 

- 

Everything is moving fast. There's no time for detail or decency.  

- 

Helmut feels adrift and without meaning. He feels as though he is the man in the Melville novel, clutching onto a coffin in the ocean, his ship wrecked, his humanity denied. 

- 

Sommerfeld? Dr. Waltz snorts. I thought he was having tea with Zhukov.  

All the same, Dr. Kleidermann says. I could use your help. He's just a boy. He's not even 21. I don't feel right about any of this. He can't be expected to negotiate with Molotov or any of them.  

No, he's not 'just a boy,' he retorts. He's our Frankenstein. He's evolved from 'just a boy.' He's changing. So? He's better than Ribbentrop and quite frankly, I'm not concerned. What happens, happens. So let's say he fails. Who's to say the Communists would be worse than what we have now? 

Dr. Kleidermann rubs his face, groaning. That's not what I meant.  

Then what did you mean? Please, explain, because I don't have all day and the amount that I care is decreasing by the minute. 

There's something…not right about Sommerfeld. 

 _Really?_ Wow, he could have fooled me. 

I don't need your attitude. He's just… I'm not sure how receptive he is to…his cause. 

And what cause would that be? Impressing the German public? Being a walking propaganda broadcast? Stopping the Soviets from annihilating our society?  

All three, I'm afraid.  

Well, don't fear, Dr. Waltz says. Don't fear anything. You know, they run around like chickens with their heads cut off, squawking about all the things to fear in this world. If war comes, it comes. If war doesn't come, it doesn't come. If we die, we die. If we survive, we survive. And so what? I'm tired of being afraid, Klaus. I'm tired of being suspicious and hateful. I want to go to bed. I'm not getting any younger, I'm not getting any smarter, and I'm certainly not getting any braver. The only thing left to turn to is apathy.  

And I know it sounds horrible and stupid, but what did it for me, Klaus, what did it for me was my dog, Ernst. He died, last week. That's what made me finally realize that everything is shit. And that's really sad and funny, because there are so many worse things that have happened to me. But no, it's a fucking _dog_ that makes me throw in the towel.  

Klaus, he continues, my wife was murdered in 1943. A couple of RAF thugs dropped bombs and created a fire tornado that reached into Heaven. They murdered her, Klaus, and I invite you to give me a reason to give a shit, anymore. I thought Sommerfeld was going to make us rich or give purpose to my life again, and none of that happened. After everything, I'm left with two thousand marks in my bank account, a dead wife, a dead dog, and a sociopathic supersoldier strutting around Berlin.  

Tell me, Klaus. Tell me why, after everything we've all been through, any of us should care.  

Dr. Kleidermann says nothing.  

Dr. Waltz leans back in his chair, cracking his knuckles. Babies are dying, he says. Babies are dying everywhere and they've always been dying. And you know, Klaus, I've heard that there's nothing sadder than a baby dying, but I can think of one thing-- _one thing_ \--that might just have it beat: children having to grow up in this world. 

- 

Helmut does not have tea with Zhukov. He has coffee with Molotov, instead.  

He has decided that he has a certain vision for Germany, whilst speaking with Soviets on preventing a 'great patriotic war.' They're not very keen on prevention, nor is the Führer, but Helmut needs to ensure that war does not break out.  

You understand, he (reportedly) says, that the Wehrmacht is highly concentrated in the eastern borders. You understand that they are headed by Guderian, certainly. Now here is something you have not heard: I am not what I seem, particularly to the Germans. 

I have motives, he (reportedly) says, separate from my government. And there is something I would like to discuss with you.  

- 

Did you hear? Brigitte tells Wiebke.  

Hear what? she says.  

About the Soviets, of course! 

What about them? 

They've agreed to negotiations. 

Negotiations about what? 

Border disputes, most likely. All I know if that we've avoided some conflict.  

Oh, Wiebke says mildly. Well, that's good.  

- 

"Hello? 

"You what? Who is this? 

"He _what?_ **_What?_**  

"Wait. Wait, why? 

"How could-- 

"No, I-- 

"I just-- 

"Okay. Okay. Yes. Expect me in three days." 

- 

Germans, Helmut (reportedly) declares, a new dawn is upon us. I do not care what my National Socialist brothers may say; they lie. I promise you, the Bolsheviks are not our enemies. Our friends? Certainly not. No, the Bolsheviks are a bastion, my good Germans, against, not a mechanism of, the democratic machine of the Slavs and Jews.  

I have said, he (reportedly) continues, that nothing lasts forever. This is certainly true, Germans. Not even God. Not even Germany. Not even your Führer. This is not so scary, Germans. It is a fact of existence, a course of history. And you will survive, as you always have. As you have overcome the Romans and the Huns and the Russians and the French, you will overcome these inevitabilities.  

Here he pauses before (reportedly) going on. I love you, Germans, he (reportedly) says. I love you. It is not dissimilar to a mother's love or a brother's. It's a cautious reverence. I love you.  

I don't want any of you to forget this. Humanity is overrated. Degradation surrounds us. Decency is sought. To be German, in this time, is not a blessing. It is a _privilege,_ my Germans. Be proud. You have earned your name. To be German is not to be born in Germany; it is to be _worthy_ of Germany.  

And again, I say to you, nothing lasts forever. No one is German forever, just as Germany is not German forever. But you and she are _today,_ my Germans. The Führer is Führer _today,_ at least. God is with us _today._ And I love you _today,_ Germans. Today is a fickle hour that stretches into eternity and yet ends in the blink of an eye. One thousand years of a Reich, they cry, but one thousand years is but one thousand and surely there are to be another thousand after that.  

I love you, Germans, he (reportedly) croaks. I love you, I love you. I can't guarantee you tomorrow, but today still continues. _Today_ is what matters. We are on top, today, Germans. We are courteous to our Bolshevik cousins, today, Germans.  

Let us thank our temporary God for our temporary fortune, my temporary Germans. We are an exclusive lot. We are a superior lot. We are a hardworking and worthy lot. You are _worthy,_ Germans. I cannot stress this enough. If you were not worthy, you would not be German. Take pride, Germans. Take pride and remember: One people, one empire, one Führer. 

- 

The Führer shoots himself the next day. 

- 

I had nothing to do with it, Helmut (reportedly) says sweetly, with his light, dulcet tones.  

Führers don't last forever, you know, and what motive have I? Dönitz is next in line, according to His will. Now, don't get me wrong, I think Dönitz would make a fine leader, but I don't understand how Göring wasn't placed next in line. It doesn't follow logic.  

After all, I may have stolen the hearts of the Reichstag, but I certainly didn't steal the _Reichstag_ itself. No, that's the job of, ha, Führers, don't you think? _I'm_ certainly no Enabler.  

No one trusts Sommerfeld. There's something horribly suspicious about him. And he won't stop fucking smiling.  

- 

Now, Dönitz, Helmut (reportedly) says, is a rotten choice for Führer. Yes, yes, I know, _Reichspräsident._ Excuse me. The intent is the same. He is the Leader, is he not? I am very insistent on this point. Germany does not breed _presidents._ She breeds _leaders._ All leaders of Germany earn this title, Führer, in my eyes, though only one man in question is truly worthy. What a curious thing to call someone. Führer. Ahem. 

Do you know who should be Führer? Erwin Rommel, in my opinion, Germans. If you're listening, Feldmarschall, I want you to consider it. I'd run your campaign and everything. Now-- Now, I understand, Germans, that Herr Rommel isn't technically a member of the NSDAP and therefore cannot run for any office and the roll of Führer is non-negotiable, but honestly! We deserve _something_ , Germans. Something better!  

Dönitz: Not good for Germany, not good for National Socialism, certainly not good for Führer. And it leads me down a line of thought, Germans: Is he even truly German? Who determines this? you may ask. Why, the answer is simple, Germans: You do.  

Yes, Germans decide who is worthy of being German, of course. So, you may decide for yourselves, Germans. But please, don't be coy about it. Let your opinions be heard. Discuss with your neighbors and employers. You are the people, and the people have power! Remember: It is _a_ _people_ , an empire, a Führer. There is a reason the people are first. They are paramount. _You_ are power in this great society!  

So go, Germans! Make your voices loud and _clear_ for our leaders. 

- 

 _Ein Volk, ein Reich, ein Führer_ grates on Wiebke's ears. There's something so insidious about the voice on the radio. She refuses to connect it with Helmut at all. It's his voice, surely, his beautiful, lovely voice. It chatters on and on. It's maniacal. It's so horrible.  

She begs Brigitte to turn off the radio.  

My brother's a great man, she snaps. Don't insult him.  

I'm not, she says. I just. My head hurts and he won't stop talking.  

Deal with it, Brigitte huffs. I'm proud of my brother. He has direction in his life. He's far away and doing a good service and that's all anyone can ask.  

Wiebke says nothing.  

- 

I told you, Helmut (reportedly) says. I told you, nothing lasts forever, not even God. Not even Germany. Not even your Führer. Well, that's true, once again! Now, no tears, my Germans. Germans know how to hold stiff upper lips. We are a curious, gothic and romantic people. It is what elevates us, this heightened acknowledgment and suppression of our innermost turmoil.  

The sadness of a German, he (reportedly) continues, is a constant thing. Tight and dry and bundled up, deep within. It rests in the stomach. We are all familiar with this national burden. It is what makes us strong. We know struggle. We know strife. We will overcome.  

Now, moving off of that, I must say, Goebbels is not the man I would select for this job. Many would simply say, 'Pah,' and settle, yes, I know. But not us! No, we hold ourselves to a higher standard! And it is this standard that begs the question: Can we do better? Well? What do _you_ think? 

- 

"Helmut?" There is a soft voice accompanied by a soft knocking.  

Helmut says nothing.  

Thomas's head pokes through, breathless and disheveled and lovely. "Helmut. How nice to see you." 

He shrugs.  

"I got a call. From that doctor. I tried to get here so much sooner, but the trains, they… I mean. He said you…you went to the Soviet Union." 

Helmut hums.  

"And… And goodness, Helmut, the Führer is _dead._ " 

Which one? Helmut thinks with some humor, but he knows. Goebbels capitulated two days ago.  

"I just. When is it going to stop, Helmut?" 

He rolls his eyes, fiddling with a paperweight. He has a deal with Stalin. He has a promise and a vision and no one's going to take that from him, least of all priests who can't keep theirs. Lovely, wonderful priests who choose God over a lab experiment.  

"Oh, don't give me that look!" Thomas snarls.  

Helmut looks up, stricken.  

He points a finger at him. "That look. You think that I abandoned you. Helmut, I don't know what's happened to you." 

Life happened, he wants to say, but he he finds himself tongue-tied. Sorry, he wants to whisper. Sorry, sorry, oh God, so sorry.  

But that's stupid, he reminds himself stiffly. Everything is converging quickly and he is working his magic and soon, soon National Socialism will be _his._ His ideology, his means, and the Soviets? The Soviets will be no issue. He has a plan. He has made an alliance and he knows what he wants.  

"I listen to your radio broadcasts," Thomas says. "You used to be so very different." 

Helmut snorts. His eyes drift over the contents of his desk.  

"I love you," Thomas says.  

Helmut hates him for using that. He hates the way his own throat closes up. He hates that weapon. Helmut has learned that there is no such thing as love, only preoccupations with certain faces. His trouble is that his preoccupation with Thomas still hasn't run out.  

"Just. Just tell me," Thomas says, tired and worn and so _old_. "Tell me if you ever need anything, Helmut. Find me. Okay?" 

Helmut says nothing.  

Thomas leaves. 

Helmut stares at nothing and says nothing and is nothing.  

- 

I must say I'm flattered, Germans, Helmut (reportedly) says. A call for me as successor? It's quaint really, and I must decline, at the present time. You see, I was just discussing with my comrade Molotov--and I can see you all sneering your lips right now at the _mention_ of a Bolshevik, which is fair enough--and we both agreed that there's a sort of, well, sort of religious connotation to the idea of leadership. If so, I said, then the connotation with Führer is that of worship. 

And think, my Germans: Is Bormann the man for this? He knew our dearly departed first Führer well, surely. But can he measure up? I think not, personally, but that is my own opinion. I am certainly a fallible creation. But not you, Germans, which is why I ask you.  

I'm still confused why Göring isn't in this lineup, my Germans, nor Himmler. Some inter-party conflict, I sense? A side ordering of gossip? It's certainly a discussion worth having. I wonder what they could have done to upset our dearly departed first Führer in such a way that He would slide them both down the ladder. Or perhaps there was an expulsion we were unaware of?  

It makes one think, Germans. Himmler, in my honest and measured opinion, is a snake. Tells you to do one thing and then vomits when he hears about it! Excuse me, while I stifle my derisive laughter. Sorry. Sorry. Ah. Insidious and cowardly and certainly not worthy of Interior Minister, yes, but who is, these days? Naturally, I wouldn't have much of an affinity for Himmler, myself, but that's a matter of circumstance. They call me Helmut Sommerfeld, but Helmut Sommerfeld does not exist. I am the new Reinhard Heydrich, Germans. I have accepted my lot in life.  

But should you? 

- 

Helmut's stopped eating again. No point, he thinks. Reinhard Heydrich doesn't need food. Reinhard Heydrich needs work and lists. Helmut Sommerfeld needs to be dead and buried, with no funeral.  

- 

He wants to replace the whole Reich interior with Soviet spies, Dr. Waltz says lazily. That's why he's doing this. He knows how to work the German public into a frenzy. Cool and calm, like Goebbels, really. It's clever. But he's no doctor; he's a bumbling farmboy from south Germany. But yes, he's either a Communist or a Nazi with Strasser ideals. A leftist, if you will. 

Dr. Kleidermann shakes his head. This isn't good. 

Why? 

 _Why?_ We'll have no more presidents if this continues! No more chancellors! No more ministers! We'll be in total anarchy.  

Mm. I suppose. Or we'll just become a Soviet satellite state. Is one really worse than the other? 

…I don't know.  

Rommel wouldn't be a bad Führer. He has a point. Personally? Speer.  

Why are you bringing this up? 

Well, he _did_ tell us to discuss.  

He's not inviting us to private thought; he's only inviting us to the _illusion_ of private thought.  

Exactly. Brilliant, isn't it? Inception of conception. He really is a natural. Hard to believe he's barely literate.  

You've become very calm about all of this in the last few months.  

Life goes on, Dr. Waltz says. Or it doesn't. Either way. There are two options. And I've done a lot of thinking. I've lived through Wilhelm II, Ebert, Luther, Simons, von Hindenburg, Hitler, Dönitz, Goebbels, and now Bormann. I'll live through Helmut Sommerfeld. And if I don't, well, then I don't suppose I'll have to be bothered by it, at the very least.  

You honestly don't care? 

It's not that I don't care, Dr. Waltz says. I care a lot, on the contrary. I've just reached a plateau in my life, where this is how I cope. I accept things. And then I move on. I survive. It's all any of us can do.  

- 

Wiebke sees the a group of men in downtown beat a Romani woman to death. They turn to leer at her, though they are really looking about curiously. To her, they are monsters straight out of a carnival. They are dressed in their civilian clothes and they horrify her in ways the dark uniforms never did. Everything in the world seems very close and large to her. Everything in the world seems so damn awful. The men ask her if she's okay.  

Wiebke says nothing.  

- 

Helmut is empty inside. Blissfully empty and numb. Bormann is dead. He's made the case for Göring. (He prefers Göring, this week, because Göring is far more reasonable than his contemporaries. He can't help but wonder why Hitler bypassed Göring's status as Reich President, but it is of no matter.) It's looking good.  

He got a letter from his father, the other day. He threw it out before he could read it.  

I have a plan, he thinks to himself again. I have a plan. _I have a plan._ And I did this because I wanted to. I do what I want to do. It isn't that life is short, it just contains a lot of filler. So I make my life exciting. Fuck Führers and fuck Germany. Fuck every German and every Underman. I couldn't care less. Let it all go to Hell. 

He feels more alive, empty and splayed out the floor of his bedroom. He owns a nice, government-regulated home. Used to belong to somebody, he figures, somebody's who's either dying in an extermination camp or rotting in a concentration camp. So it goes.  

He thinks about getting a nice boy from down the street, but then he thinks of Röhm and he thinks of Thomas and he vomits a little in his mouth. He grins, at the sensation. His teeth are bloody.  

Hail victory! he wants to cry, elated. Puke slides out of the corners of his mouth and drips down his face onto the carpet. He laughs.  

- 

Himmler is not happy with the Sommerfeld issue. Very few Party members are, but the people rave over him. He walks through the streets and grabs at people's hands and they swoon. They _swoon._ He incites them better than Goebbels at the Night of the Broken Glass. He suggests a hop and they leap.  

He's not the new Reinhard Heydrich. He's something else entirely. Reinhard Heydrich was organized and collected. Helmut Sommerfeld is a loose cannon.  

Unpredictable, dangerous, and, if intelligence is accurate, a virulent Communist.  

- 

Ah! Helmut (reportedly) exclaims. I have a tidbit for you, Germans. Some news regarding the expulsion of our beloved and possible future Führer, Hermann Göring. On the eve of our dearly departed first Führer's most dreadful passing, Göring asked to assume control of the great nation known as the Third Reich of Germany.  

This is very painful for me, as it must be for you, Germans, but our dearly departed first Führer took this reasonable and measured request as treason and readjusted His will. Shame. I'm still looking into our resident SS-Reichsführer, I promise you, but he would not make a good Führer, anyhow. It is for the best that he is not involved in the proceedings.  

It is in your hands, Germans! So do what you must. Discuss. Decide. Judge. Judge harshly, Germans. And may God smile on us all, no matter the consequences. Damn the consequences! We look to the future, Germans. Look beyond yourselves. Lie back, Germans, and consider the nation.  

- 

I'm about five months along, Brigitte tells Wiebke and she is glowing. 

Wiebke says nothing.  

The father's Ernst Streicher from the next town over? He's _lovely_ , Wiebke. Handsome and smart and just as excited as I am. My father's so proud.  

Wiebke says nothing.  

- 

Consider, for a moment, Helmut (reportedly) says cooly, that I am your Führer. Consider it, Germans. Consider me as your Führer and Chancellor and, yes, your President. Is this treason? Possibly. But one must not decry a hypothetical situation. It's good for the mind. It strengthens it.  

I am your Overman, Germans. Don't forget this.  

- 

Helmut gets a letter that he decides to open. It informs him that he is under arrest for treason.  

He folds it up, puts it in his pocket, has a glass of wine, wets himself slightly out of instinctual fear, chuckles about it, and calls up two people: Georgi Zhukov and Thomas König.  

- 

I prefer to think of myself as a Socialist _and_ a Nationalist, Helmut (reportedly) says distractedly. He manically twists the napkin in his hands, fingers skittering and jumping, eyes blank and wide. Never a National Socialist. There's far too much emphasis on the bourgeoise Judo-capitalist elements. How can they be the bastions for Bolshevism? It's not…consistent with the logic of the Party. Do you understand? 

Dr. Kleidermann just nods. He goes along with it. Helmut really is a better Hitler. He doesn't know how he feels. Some responsibility for Helmut? Possibly. Yes. And a great, gaping sadness, within, perhaps.  

I'm gonna die, Doc. 

I know, he says.  

They're going to hang me like cattle, he (reportedly) says. His wrists are taut and his hands blessfully still. (The napkin is unsalvable, however; it seems as though it would take a solid week to iron that thing out.)  

Most likely. 

Helmut grins. It makes Dr. Kleidermann deeply uncomfortable. You told me never to speak, he (reportedly) says, and you were right. You were so right, Doc. But that's okay, because I have a plan.  

I don't like that connotation.  

You don't have to. Everything will be fine. Everything will be good, Doc. Just you wait.  

Dr. Kleidermann doesn't want to wait. He finds he doesn't have to, when he finds three train tickets to Switzerland in his mail box, the next day. 

 - 

"Why are you here, Helmut?" Thomas asks tiredly.  

Heinrich Himmler's put a price on my head, I'm afraid, he wants to say. But no. He says nothing.  

"They say you're a Communist." 

He says nothing.  

"You know, I think it's funny," Thomas says, "how I gave you up for God and you gave me up for the nation. And sometimes, Helmut, sometimes I wonder what kind of life we ever _could_ have had together, even if we did swing it. I'm not as illusional, anymore.  

"Would we go to work and come home in the evening and listen to the radio, Helmut? Would we cook dinner together? Own a farm? Have children? I have no idea. And I've decided it doesn't matter, because that sort of life makes too much sense to be real. Life's so senseless, Helmut." He shakes his head.  

Thomas is a beaten man and it crushes Helmut's insides into a tight ball. Whatever is left of his virtuous insides, whatever hasn't been hijacked by Heydrich, weeps.  

„I'm going to be killed by the SS tomorrow.“, he says. 

"Oh Jesus," Thomas moans, squeezing his eyes shut.  

„I love you.“ 

Thomas weeps and it is the worst sound Helmut has ever heard in his young and long life. "I would have married you, if I could," Thomas says, smearing tears and snot across his face.  

Helmut smiles and it's lovely, despite his drawn face. It's lovely, despite how fake it is. It's lovely, because it is the extension of an olive branch. It's lovely because Helmut cares enough to lie. Thomas sobs wetly and keens. Helmut traces his jaw and he says, „We may have made our choices, Thomas, but after the fact, there's always you.“ 

This is all fine, with Helmut. It fits into his philosophy quite neatly. Nothing lasts forever, not even God. Not even Germany. Not even the Führer. Not even Helmut.  

- 

The next day, on a cold, dank morning, Helmut Sommerfeld is taken out behind a chemical shed. He rears up and he says something memorable, surely. One SS-man claims Helmut declared himself the Führer and it was very impressive and brilliant. Another claims Helmut prayed to God. No one says he was pathetic, however, though one says that he wept in a fashion most beautiful and tragic.  

Helmut is riddled with bullets by a task force and strung up like a pig in the marketplace.  

- 

The day after that, Soviets are at the border.  

- 

Oh my God! Brigitte's mother screams from the sitting room.  

What, what? she says, running into the room.  

Her mother stares at her with wide eyes. They cancelled the weekend showing of that new romantic comedy, can you believe that? 

 _What?_  

Sh, listen! And she turns up the radio.  

And then Brigitte hears it.  

Damn it, she mutters.  

- 

Wiebke feels a great lacking in her. She shakes it off. She says nothing.  

- 

Thomas König is on a train to Switzerland with a doctor he's seen once before and another he's never met. Thomas doesn't feel like a coward or a traitor, he doesn't feel much like anything. He lets things happen to him. He lets two strange men drag him onto a train away from danger. He lets the scenery slide past. He lets his head sink into the seat. His eyes trail to Dr. Kleidermann, who is flipping through a book. It's a Heinrich Heine.  

Do you know what Manfred von Richthofen said before he died? Dr. Waltz says, with some humor.  

"What?" Thomas asks.  

Kaputt.   

Kaputt. Well, Thomas thinks, that's a fine phrase. Everything's a fine mess and that's a fine phrase and the air is bright and clean and the train is certainly _not_ kaputt, even if the nation and the world and the human condition is. He thinks of Jesus Christ and he thinks of his mother and he thinks of _kaputt_ and there's something so _fitting_. Something so undeniably fitting and light and beautiful about life. Thomas, against all odds, finds himself happy, giddy from elation at something intangible and magnificent. 

They all have a long laugh.  

 

 

 

 

( . .);;;..,;/,//,.;'';,/..,/,/.,/¨¨¨¨¨¨¨¨¨


End file.
